Chapter Eleven - Isabella
His estate is nothing like I imagined. Behind iron gates and a half mile of winding driveway, the house rises out of old trees and sculpted stone, as if it’s been waiting here for centuries.
Too grand to be new, too immaculate to be old.
Like everything else about Emil Sharov, it sits on the border of two worlds.
I arrive just before sunset, the sky still warm but shadows creeping in.
A stone-faced guard waves me through, speaking softly into a headset.
I keep my shoulders squared, hands folded in my lap as the car winds up the drive.
I remind myself: this is what I wanted. Answers.
Evidence. I can’t afford to let my nerves show.
Inside, a maid in crisp black leads me to the lounge.
She calls it the blue salon, but there’s nothing soft about it: high ceilings, carved moldings, velvet that swallows sound.
Sunlight lingers on the silver trays and heavy glass vases, all of it staged like an auction preview.
I sink into the edge of a settee, back straight, heart pounding.
The house smells of clean linen, polished wood, something sharp and expensive underneath.
Emil isn’t here yet. Some emergency meeting, the housekeeper murmurs, apologetic but brisk. He’ll return soon. Would I like anything to drink? I shake my head, voice steady, and thank her. She leaves me with a silence so thick it’s almost physical.
I wait ten minutes, maybe twenty, legs crossed tight, mind racing. I try to focus on the room—on the art, the silk, the subtle cues of wealth—but everything feels wrong. I feel watched. Judged. Like the house itself is suspicious, waiting for me to make a mistake.
Finally, I can’t take it. I stand, smoothing my skirt, and drift toward the door. I tell myself I’m just stretching my legs, but every step takes me deeper into the mansion’s labyrinth.
The staff are mostly gone or invisible; the security cameras I spot are discreet, half hidden in sconces and crown molding. I keep my head down, breathing slow and quiet, tracing my fingertips along the cold marble banister as I pass.
A hallway leads to a dark wooden door, slightly ajar. The study. Of course. I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to turn back. But curiosity is sharper than fear. I slip inside.
It’s darker here. The heavy curtains are drawn. The scent of cigars and old paper hangs in the air. Books line the walls, their spines faded to near-black. The desk is perfectly neat, except for one thing: a slim file folder, out of place, half hidden under a sheaf of invoices.
I hesitate, listening. No footsteps, no voices. I reach for the folder, breath shallow, hands shaking. I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that, but I slide the folder free and open it, holding it just close enough to read.
A single photograph stares back at me. Enzo.
My brother—alive, unsmiling, standing in some alley lit by the harsh glow of a streetlamp.
There’s a timestamp at the bottom corner marking it as the night he disappeared.
The rest of the folder is a blur of receipts, security footage stills, a memo in Russian that means nothing to me.
My hands tremble harder. My vision wavers.
I feel sick, hot, exposed. I snap the folder shut and shove it back, careful to keep everything exactly as I found it. My mind races. Did Emil take this picture himself? Was he watching Enzo that night, hunting him? The answer twists in my gut, cold and jagged.
A rush of footsteps in the hall. I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs. Voices of staff, maybe Emil himself, returning from his meeting. Panic claws at my throat. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The urge to run is overpowering.
I duck out of the study, moving fast and silent, retracing my steps down the hall.
My breath shudders in and out, eyes burning.
The house seems to press in around me, every doorway an accusation, every chandelier watching with blind suspicion.
I move through room after room, the fine art and velvet and ancient glass blurring past.
I reach the blue salon just as the maid reappears, startled to find me on my feet. “Is everything alright, miss?”
“I just needed some air,” I manage, my voice brittle. “I’m not feeling well. Could you… would you call me a car, please?”
She hesitates, glancing over my shoulder as if expecting Emil to materialize. “Of course. If you’d like to wait—”
“No, thank you,” I interrupt, sharper than intended. I force a smile, willing my hands to stop shaking. “I’ll wait outside.”
She nods, hurrying to fetch her phone. I move to the front doors, the marble floor cold beneath my shoes, the world spinning around me. I press my hand to the doorframe, dragging in the thick night air, desperate to keep from falling apart.
I can’t stay here. I can’t let Emil see me like this, not when I’ve just seen evidence—proof—of a connection between him and Enzo’s last night. If he knows what I’ve found, I’m finished.
A car arrives, idling quietly in the drive. I slip inside, barely meeting the driver’s eyes, and slam the door. As the estate falls away behind me, the full weight of what I’ve seen presses down: the file, the timestamp, my brother’s face in the dark.
Every part of me is trembling with grief, rage, terror braided together. Beneath it all, a dangerous clarity settles in. Emil Sharov is involved. One way or another, I’ll find out what happened to Enzo. I’ll make Emil pay if I have to.
For now, all I can do is escape, and pray my panic didn’t betray me.
***
Later that night, the walls of my room close in around me.
I sit hunched over my phone, the only light in the room the blue glow of the screen.
I scroll back and forth over the photo I took in Emil’s study, Enzo’s unsmiling face, the cruel timestamp burned into the corner.
Each time I look at it, a new wave of nausea threatens to choke me.
My thumb shakes as I pinch the image larger, trying to read meaning in every shadow.
He was there, I think. Emil Sharov was there that night. He knows something. Maybe he did it himself.
I’m so lost in the storm of grief and anger that when my door swings open, I nearly jump out of my skin. The phone fumbles from my hand and lands face down on the coverlet.
I snatch it up just as Matteo strolls in, all casual arrogance, not even pretending he might have interrupted something private.
“Jesus, Matteo, ever heard of knocking?” My voice is too sharp, but he just grins, unbothered.
“Relax, Iz,” he drawls, flopping against the doorframe. “You planning to run away with your phone or what?” His eyes are lazy, flicking over my face, but there’s nothing pointed in his tone, no hint of suspicion about Emil, or the club, or anything that matters.
I force my features smooth, adopting the same bored mask I’ve worn for years in this house.
“Just texting Clara. I told you she was being dramatic about that breakup.” I give him a withering look, desperate to keep things normal. “What do you want?”
Matteo pushes off the frame, wandering around my room like he owns the place, picking up a bracelet, setting it back down.
“Tomorrow night. Don’t forget the big party at the Pedros’ place.
” He throws himself onto the edge of my bed, ignoring my look of annoyance.
“Uncle’s orders. Everyone’s expected to make an appearance. ”
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference. “Another excuse for old men to get drunk and tell war stories. Can’t wait.”
He laughs. “Yeah, well, you’re the guest of honor this time, apparently.” His smile turns sly. “Dad and Shawn Pedro have been talking. Guess who they want to marry you off to?”
My stomach sinks, but I force myself to look unimpressed. “Please. If I had a dollar for every time someone tried to auction me off at a party, I’d have left this circus years ago.”
Matteo shrugs, mock sympathy on his face. “Just don’t be late. Uncle gets twitchy when you make him look bad. Pedro’s kid is even worse than last year. He’s been sniffing around all week.” He stands, stretching. “You’re the family’s best bargaining chip. Try to act like it.”
I snort, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah, princess of the meat market. Tell Dad I’ll wear something extra frilly.”
He grins, blowing me a kiss as he heads for the door. “Don’t stab anyone until after dessert. That’s all I’m asking.” With that, he disappears, leaving the door swinging behind him.
I exhale, pressing my knuckles into my thighs to steady myself. If Matteo saw me with Emil the other night, he’s hiding it well. His casual arrogance soothes my nerves, though I watch every flicker of his expression for the truth. But no, he’s just Matteo, bored and hungry for drama, nothing more.
When the hallway is quiet again, I pull my phone back into my lap. The photo is still there. Enzo’s face. The alley, the timestamp, the silent accusation.
My anger blazes, burning away the last threads of doubt. All this time, Emil Sharov—my enemy, my family’s oldest rival—was there with my brother the night he vanished.
The more I replay it, the clearer it becomes: Emil isn’t just a bystander. He’s involved, maybe responsible. I clench my fists, jaw aching with the effort of not screaming.
I should hate him. I do hate him. Every lesson drilled into me since childhood, every whispered warning about the Russians, every punishment for stepping out of line, they all point to this moment. He’s the threat I’ve been raised to fear.
Deep down, something else twists inside me. Not just fear or fury, but the memory of standing in Emil’s study—the sharp cut of his voice, the way he watched me like I was a secret only he could solve.
I remember the heat in his eyes, the way my skin prickled with awareness when he called me Bella. I shove it all down, telling myself it’s only hatred, only the high of the chase that keeps me up tonight.
I scroll through my texts, thumbing restlessly, wanting distraction. The night presses in. I want to scream, to cry, to hit something until the ache in my chest goes quiet.
Then my phone buzzes, It’s a new message, the contact unknown but the words unmistakable.
Dinner this week? I’ve got a few new pieces I’d like your opinion on. –E.
For a second, I freeze, panic rising. Emil, reaching out. The timing is cruel. My family expects me at the Pedros’ party tomorrow. There’s no way to sneak away without drawing suspicion, and even if I could, I don’t trust myself to sit across from him and keep the rage from boiling over.
I type a reply, forcing my fingers to steady: Sorry, can’t make it. Not feeling well. Rain check?
He responds almost instantly. Of course. Next time.
I drop the phone onto the bed, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see stars.
Tomorrow I’ll have to play the dutiful niece, the pawn in whatever game my uncle and Shawn Pedro have devised.
I’ll smile, I’ll make small talk, I’ll pretend not to notice the way everyone circles around me like vultures.
After that—after I’ve fulfilled my obligations—I know exactly what I have to do. I’ll get close to Emil Sharov. I’ll make him trust me, make him confess the truth, whatever it costs.
The photo glows in the darkness. Enzo’s face. My enemy’s shadow beside him. Fury burns hot and bright, almost drowning out the fear and the flicker of curiosity I can’t quite extinguish.
I’ll get my answers. No matter what it takes.